Red Beans and Vice Read online

  Also by Lou Jane Temple

  The Cornbread Killer

  Bread on Arrival

  A Stiff Risotto

  Death by Rhubarb

  Revenge of the Barbecue Queens

  LOU JANE TEMPLE

  ST. MARTIN’S MINOTAUR NEW YORK

  RED BEANS AND VICE. Copyright © 2001 by Lou Jane Temple. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  ISBN 0-312-28013-0

  ISBN 978-0-312-28013-0

  To Ron Megee,

  friend and creative inspiration

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book about New Orleans is a great undertaking. The city has a history like no other. My thanks to the forefathers who kept such good records. The three museums in the French Quarter run by the Louisiana State Museum system, the Cabildo, the Presbytère, and the Old U.S. Mint, are all great. So is the Historic New Orleans Collection at 533 Royal.

  Thanks to Susan Spicer at Bayona and Anne Kearny at Peristyle for inspiring me to have a women’s chef dinner in the book, and to Jo Anne Clevenger at Upperline and Anthony and Gail at Uglesich’s for feeding me so well while I did research, among others of course. The Napoleon House, my favorite bar in America, gave me loads of creative moments. I’m grateful to my daughter, Reagan Walker, and my daughter-in-law, Kelly Walker, for helping me with research.

  I appreciate the Ursuline nuns for sending me their book, A Century of Pioneering: A History of the Ursuline Nuns in New Orleans, 1727-1827, by Sister Jane Francis Heaney. Many other good reference books about New Orleans helped me, but the best was written in 1895. If you ever see a copy of New Orleans: The Place and The People, by Grace King, get it.

  Thanks to Margaret Silva for providing a safe haven where I can get some work done.

  Jambalaya

  1 whole head garlic, roasted

  3 stalks celery, sliced thin

  1 large onion, peeled and diced

  1 green pepper, seeded, quartered and diced

  1 red or yellow pepper, or both, seeded and diced

  1 large can Italian tomatoes, smashed up

  1 can artichoke hearts, drained and halved

  1 qt. chicken stock

  1 qt. shrimp stock

  1 small can tomato sauce

  12-15 cherry tomatoes, halved

  ¼ cup oregano leaves, chopped

  2 sprigs thyme

  1 lb. large shrimp

  1 lb. Polish sausage or andouille

  ½ lb. crabmeat

  1 lb. white long grained rice

  1 T. Louisiana hot sauce

  olive oil

  kosher salt

  black pepper

  white pepper

  1 T. Worcestershire sauce

  1 tsp. cayenne

  1 T. green Tabasco sauce

  This is a great party dish that has suffered too much exposure of late. Remember to put the shrimp in last so they don’t turn to rubber. My version gets great flavor from the roasted garlic and the two stocks.

  To roast the garlic: In a baking dish, put a tablespoon of good olive oil and a sprinkling of kosher salt. Split the head of garlic and place in the pan face down. Bake in a 350 degree oven for 20 minutes or so, until the garlic is soft and browned on the bottom.

  To make the shrimp stock: Peel the shrimp and place the shells in a large saucepan. Add the tops and bottom of the celery bunch, some parsley stems, green onion tops, half an onion with the skin on, and a carrot that has been washed but not peeled. If there is any open white wine in the refrigerator, throw some in. Cover this with 2 qts. of cold water and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer, occasionally skimming the top of the stock, until you have reduced the liquid by about half. Strain and cool.

  In a large, heavy Dutch oven or something like it, heat 4 T. olive oil. Add the trinity: diced onion, celery, and peppers. When they have softened and the onion is translucent, add the rice and toss. Then add the tomatoes and the tomato sauce. Squeeze out the roasted garlic cloves into the pot. Bring up to a simmer for a couple of minutes, then add the chicken stock and herbs. Simmer 20 minutes. Add the cherry tomatoes, artichoke hearts, and sausage. As the liquid cooks away, add the shrimp stock and the seasonings. Taste every once in a while to test the rice. When the rice is just tender, throw in the shrimp and crabmeat. If you need more liquid, add water, chicken stock, or shrimp stock, whatever you have to keep it moist. Cook just long enough for the shrimp to turn pink, adjust seasonings and serve.

  One

  So, first they sent women from Paris to be brides of the French settlers, then they sent these nuns to help birth the babies and start schools and stuff.” Heaven Lee was pacing around Sal’s barbershop, waving a hardcover book. Sal was getting ready for his day, setting out his clippers and combs and scissors in a neat, orderly row. Murray Steinblatz, the maitre d’ at Cafe Heaven, had brought Lamar’s doughnuts to the barbershop and Heaven had brought coffee from the restaurant across the street. She would only drink Sal’s coffee under crisis circumstances. The other member of this impromptu coffee klatch was Mona Kirk, the owner of the cat gift store right next to Cafe Heaven. She was the only one who seemed interested in Heaven’s history lesson.

  “And that was how long ago?”

  “Really early, as far as American history goes. Seventeen twenty-seven. My friend sent me this history of New Orleans and it tells all about them, the sisters,” she said, waving the book again. “Can you imagine a bunch of nuns coming across the ocean to God knows where.” Heaven was glad to have an audience. “New Orleans was just a swamp with a few houses then.”

  Sal turned his head to face the crowd rather than talk through the mirrors that lined the room as he did when he had a customer. “So what’s different from right now? That city is still under sea level and still filled with alligators and other slimy two-legged critters, from what I read in the newspaper.”

  The word newspaper pulled Murray away from the one he was reading, the Kansas City Star. Murray was really a journalist who had dropped out for a while and was working at Cafe Heaven. He used to write for the New York Times and was sending them a column once again entitled “Letters From the Interior.” “That’s right, Sal,” Murray said. “That city is full of corruption. Once I flew down there for a story when the vice squad had to be disbanded because it was just too corrupt. What a comedy. The bar owners on Bourbon Street complained because the cops would come in and help themselves to the bills in the cash register, just scoop out money and walk away.”

  It did seem comical but also exciting, and they all chuckled wistfully. Kansas City rarely had scandal anymore, and when it did, it was a more boring, stolid Midwestern variety.

  “Remind me, Heaven,” Sal said. “What do these nuns have to do with you going down to ol’ NOLA?”

  “Nola?” Mona Kirk asked peevishly. She was the only one who had been attentively listening and she didn’t remember a Nola being a part of the tale. “Who’s Nola?”

  Heaven patted Mona’s leg and knocked some glazed doughnut leavings off her slacks. “NOLA is just a nickname for New Orleans, Louisiana. N and O for New Orleans, and LA is the state abbreviation for Louisiana,” she said in a slightly condescending manner.

  “I knew that,” Mona said crossly.

  “The nuns?” Sal asked again. Once Sal started tracking on something, he wanted to get it straight.

  Heaven looked around the room like an old maid schoolteacher, pursing her lips slightly. “Now everybody, pay attention. The history stuff was
just to show that I’m not leaving you all for some unimportant, trivial pursuit in another city. The nuns, the Sisters of the Holy Trinity, are a very important part of New Orleans history, and my national women’s chef group is helping Susan Spicer and Anne Kearney, who are restaurant owners and chefs in New Orleans, we’re helping them put on a benefit for the sisters because the sisters’ thing is education and that happens to be important to the women’s chef group too.” She could see by the way Murray’s eyes were glazing over that she was losing them again. “And a woman I knew when I was a lawyer, a woman who used to live here but married someone and moved to New Orleans, just happens to be on the committee for this benefit. She called personally and asked me to be one of the chefs and so I couldn’t say no to a good cause and an old friend, now could I?”

  Murray gamely tried to act interested. “Old friend? I’ve never heard you talk about an old friend in New Orleans.”

  “Well,” Heaven said defensively, “she was a law school friend. I always liked her; we just didn’t keep up after she moved out of town. I’ve seen her a couple of times when I’ve been in NOLA.”

  Sal turned back to his brushes with a roll of his eyes. “You know, it’s not a crime to just take a vacation. You could say, ‘Bye everybody, I’m off to New Orleans for a few days.’ No, you have to go and get involved with some big production number. That New Orleans society is different, Heaven. I had an uncle who lived down there. Lots of Italians came through there after the famine of—”

  “What are you saying, Sal, that you think Heaven can’t breeze through a little Southern society event?” Mona broke in. “Heaven single handedly kept the Eighteenth and Vine dedication from going to hell in a handbasket, with a little help from me, of course. New Orleans will be a piece of cake for Heaven.”

  “That reminds me, what are you cooking?” Murray asked, trying to change the subject. Sal and Mona could bicker about almost anything.

  “We don’t have that figured out yet. That’s one of the reasons I’m going down there tomorrow, so we can assign the courses and decide where everyone will do prep and take a look at the convent. But Pauline and I have been working on some kind of an outrageous pie with praline bits and strawberries and other decadent things. We’re calling it Nola Pie.”

  Murray stood up and shook the doughnut icing off his trousers. “Well, let me know when you need a taste tester. I’m leaving. I’ve got errands to run. See you later.”

  “You’re working tonight, aren’t you?” Heaven asked.

  “I’m working for the next four days, while you’re gone, remember? I’ll expect you to give me my instructions tonight, before the open mike.”

  “It’s time for me to open the shop,” Mona said as she folded up the newspaper Murray had left in a tangle on his chair. They all knew Sal hated a messy newspaper in the shop. Why couldn’t Murray just fold it up himself when he was done with it?

  Sal noticed what Mona was doing and gave her a reluctant grunt. “Thanks, there, Mona.”

  “Bye, Sal,” Heaven said and blew a kiss in his direction.

  “You might need a trim before you go down to New Orleans,” Sal barked, trying to act like he didn’t really notice Heaven’s hair.

  Heaven stopped at the door. “Good idea,” she said as she checked her red locks in the mirrors. “Let me go see what’s up in the kitchen and I’ll come back over later. Are you busy all day?”

  “Eleven,” Sal said without turning around as the two women banged the door shut.

  Heaven and Mona crossed 39th Street to their businesses, stopping for a quick hug on the sidewalk between the two places. “Later,” Heaven said vaguely in Mona’s direction as she watched the mailman stuffing envelopes in the mail slot of her cafe. She said hello to him as they passed on the street, then unlocked the front door with the key she’d slipped in her shirt pocket when she went to Sal’s for coffee. Heaven didn’t like to leave the front door open early in the morning. People could wander in off the street and the kitchen crew wouldn’t know they were in the dining room. Once, a couple of years ago, Heaven had found a derelict sleeping across a big table hours after the kitchen crew had been working in the back. In the morning, deliveries needed to come to the kitchen door anyway.

  The minute Heaven set foot in the restaurant, she felt like a ball in a pinball machine, moving from one problem or task to the next without having a big plan for the day, propelled forward by who needed her the most. The produce guy was on the phone, and Heaven and he talked about what spring lettuces and vegetables were available this week. The accountant called and asked a bunch of questions concerning a few pieces of new equipment he was trying to amortize. Pauline, the baker, and Brian, the lunch chef, had a squabble that Heaven had to referee. The night dishwasher called with the news he had broken his wrist on Sunday playing baseball with his kids. He was waiting at the medical center for a special waterproof cast to be put on and he might be late for work. Because she was thinking of New Orleans, she decided to make Jambalaya for a special, so she started the prep for that.

  The next thing Heaven knew, it was time to go get her hair cut. As she headed into the dining room she spotted a stack of mail piled on the bar where a waiter had thrown it so Heaven could look through it. She grabbed it and headed across the street to Sal’s.

  “Don’t let me forget the coffeepot,” Heaven said as she walked in the door of the barbershop, shuffling through the mail as she talked. Sal was brushing off the neck of a uniformed policeman. Heaven sat down and started opening envelopes, ripping a few of them almost in two to indicate they were junk mail, putting the rest on the bottom of the pile.

  The cop shook hands with Sal, paid, and left. Heaven sat down in Sal’s battered leather barber chair. She held up a plain white envelope with a handwritten address and tossed the rest of the mail on Sal’s countertop. “Look at this, Sal. It sticks out like a sore thumb among the rest of the day’s mail. Guess why?”

  Sal moved the unlit cigar he kept in his mouth most of the day from one side of his face to the other. “Easy,” he grumbled. “Handwritten, not computer type. No return address, either.”

  Heaven smiled. “Sal, what a mind. I hadn’t noticed the lack of a return address. I hope it’s a party invitation.” As Sal put a clean smock around her shoulders, she ripped open the envelope. Silence followed. Sal didn’t notice for a minute because he had to find his best pair of snipping shears to work on Heaven. By the time he turned back to the chair, Heaven was holding out the letter, her hand shaking.

  “What?” Sal asked.

  “Look,” she said with a small voice Sal hadn’t heard before. He took the single sheet of paper and read. The text was in some generic typeface:

  CAFE HEAVEN IS FULL OF AIDS INFESTED FAGS.

  THE COOKS PICK THEIR NOSE IN YOUR FOOD.

  EAT THERE AT YOUR OWN EXPENSE.

  Sal folded the letter carefully by the edges. “I hope none of the guys is that way,” he said gruffly. “I think a lot of Chris and Joe.”

  Heaven started crying. “See. That’s what happens when someone writes down that kind of filth. Even you, you who know us all, you tend to believe something that’s written down. Not that having AIDS is something that makes a person bad, but the intentions of this letter certainly are.”

  “Hell, I guess lots of waiters are gay. It would make sense some of them might be sick…” Sal trailed off, red-faced.

  Heaven stood up, tears streaming down her face. ‘Yes, but as it happens, none of my waiters, who are also my friends, are sick. And having someone slander them that way, about something life and death… “She sank back down in the chair. “What a monster.” She wiped her nose with her arm like a kid. “What if they sent this to someone else? What should I do, Sal? Why would anyone…”

  “Honey, there are lots of deranged people out there. Your restaurant is popular and that makes some people want to destroy, to tear it down.”

  “But what should I do? Should I tell the guys?” Heaven whimp
ered, her usual competency shattered.

  Sal patted her shoulder and handed her a wad of tissues. “I tell you what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna cut your hair real pretty for New Orleans. Then you’re gonna go back to the cafe and keep your mouth shut. That’s the plan. I’m gonna call Murray and show him this thing and he’s the only one we’re gonna tell. Not even Mona, you understand?”

  “Can’t I tell Hank?” she asked, like a petulant child.

  “Not now,” Sal said gruffly. “Just buck up and shut up, like a big girl.”

  Heaven saw the glitter of tears in Sal’s eyes. Embarrassed at being caught under the sway of his emotions, he spun her around, away from the mirrors.

  Monday nights were busy at Cafe Heaven because it was open mike night. The actors and poets and musicians of Kansas City came in and performed free because they knew it would be a full house and a tough crowd. If they could make it there, chances were their act would fly anywhere else in town.

  The open mike had been over for about an hour. It was after midnight and Tony, the bartender, was counting his drawer. Most of the waiters had checked out with Murray and a couple were helping the busboys set up the tables for tomorrow’s lunch. Heaven was at the bar nursing a glass of Veuve Clicquot. She’d left the kitchen cleanup to the rest of the line. Murray came and sat down, ordering a Diet Coke with lime. ‘You usually don’t drink that bubbly stuff this late at night,” he remarked to Heaven.

  “It’s good for all times of the day and night,” Heaven said dully.

  “You expecting someone?” Murray asked.

  “No. I thought I’d drink the whole bottle tonight, all by myself.”

  “Now, Heaven, calm down. I know you’re upset about the letter. I think this is just a crank who wrote that thing. Chances are by the time you get home at the end of the week, nothing will have come of it.”

  “That’s a sick person, Murray. If that’s someone’s idea of a joke, he’s insane and should be put away. If someone is starting a campaign to ruin my business, well…those seem to be the two choices we have. Insane or vicious. Fun, huh?” Heaven threw back her champagne. Tony looked up and tried to make eye contact with Murray, like he was asking, “What’s up with the boss?” Murray kept his head down. Heaven reached over and poured herself another glass of champagne out of an ice bucket on the bar. She must have told Tony to keep the bottle handy. She gave Murray a don’t-fuck-with-me look.